Whichwood
(Sprache: Englisch)
Laylee is the sole remaining mordeshoor in Whichwood, destined to spend her days washing the bodies of the dead and preparing their souls for the afterlife. When a pair of familiar strangers appears, she rediscovers color, magic, and the healing power of...
Leider schon ausverkauft
versandkostenfrei
Buch (Kartoniert)
12.00 €
6 DeutschlandCard Punkte
sammeln
- Lastschrift, Kreditkarte, Paypal, Rechnung
- Kostenlose Rücksendung
Produktdetails
Produktinformationen zu „Whichwood “
Laylee is the sole remaining mordeshoor in Whichwood, destined to spend her days washing the bodies of the dead and preparing their souls for the afterlife. When a pair of familiar strangers appears, she rediscovers color, magic, and the healing power of friendship. Darkly enchanting, Mafi weaves an all-new magical adventure in this companion to the bestselling Furthermore.
Klappentext zu „Whichwood “
Embark on a dark and lush journey through the land of Whichwood in this stunning companion to Tahereh Mafi's acclaimed bestseller Furthermore.Our story begins on a frosty night . . .
Laylee can barely remember the happier times before her beloved mother died. Before her father, driven by grief, lost his wits (and his way). Before she was the left as the sole remaining mordeshoor in the village of Whichwood, destined to spend her days washing the bodies of the dead and preparing their souls for the afterlife. It's become easy to forget and easier still to ignore her own ever increasing loneliness and the way her hands are stiffening and turning silver, just like her hair.
But soon, a pair of familiar strangers appear, and Laylee's world is turned upside down as she rediscovers color, magic, and the healing power of friendship.
Lush and darkly enchanting, critically-acclaimed author Tahereh Mafi weaves an all-new magical adventure in this companion to the New York Times bestselling Furthermore.
Lese-Probe zu „Whichwood “
Our Story Begins on a Frosty NightInfant snow drifted down in gentle whorls, flakes as large as pancakes glinting silver as they fell. Shaggy trees wore white leaves and moonlight glimmered across a glassy lake. The night was soft and all was slow and snow had hushed the earth into a deep, sound slumber and oh, winter was fast approaching.
For the town of Whichwood, winter was a welcome distraction; they thrived in the cold and delighted in the ice (the very first snowfall was terribly nice), and they were well equipped with food and festivities to keep toasty throughout the season. Yalda, the biggest celebration, was the winter solstice, and the land of Whichwood was electric with anticipation. Whichwood was a distinctly magical village, and Yalda-the town's most important holiday-was a very densely magical evening. Yalda was the last night of fall and the longest night of the year; it was a time of gift-giving and tea-drinking and endless feasting-and it was a great deal more than that, too. We're a bit pressed for minutes at the moment (something strange is soon to happen and I can't be distracted when it does), so we'll discuss the finer details at a later time. For now, know this: Every new snowfall arrived with a foot of fresh excitement, and with only two days left till winter, the people of Whichwood could scarcely contain their joy.
With a single notable exception.
There was only one person in Whichwood who never partook in the town merriment. Only one person who drew closed her curtains and cursed the song and dance of a magical evening. And she was a very strange person indeed.
Laylee hated the cold.
At thirteen years old, she'd long lost that precious, relentless optimism reserved almost exclusively for young people. She'd no sense of whimsy, no interest in decadence, no tolerance for niceties. No, Laylee hated the frost and she hated the fuss and she resented not only this holiday season, but even those who loved it. (To be fair,
... mehr
Laylee resented many things-not the least of which was her lot in life-but winter was the thing she resented perhaps most of all.)
Come sleet or snow, she alone was forced to work long hours in the cold, her kneecaps icing over as she dragged dead bodies into a large porcelain tub in her backyard. She'd scrub limp necks and broken legs and dirty fingernails until her own fingers froze solid, and then she'd hang those dead, dragging limbs up to dry-only to later return and break icicles off corpse chins and noses. Laylee had no holidays, no vacations, not even a set schedule. She worked when her customers came calling, which meant very soon she'd be worked to the bone. Winter in Whichwood, you see, was a very popular season for dying.
Tonight, Laylee was found frowning (her expression of choice), irritated (perhaps more than usual), bundled (to the point of asphyxiation), and stubbornly determined to catch a few snowflakes before dinner. Fresh flakes were the thickest and the crispest, and a rare treat if you were quick enough to catch a few.
If I may: I know it seems a strange idea, eating snowflakes for dinner, but you have to understand-Laylee Layla Fenjoon was a very strange girl, and despite (or perhaps because of) the oddness of her occupation, she was in desperate need of a treat. She'd had to wash nine very large, thoroughly rotted persons today-this was four more than usual-and it had been very hard on her. Indeed, she often caught herself dreaming of a life where her family didn't run a laundering business for the deceased.Well, I say family, but it was really just Laylee doing all the washing. Maman had died two years prior (a cockroach had fallen in the samovar and Maman, unwittingly, drank the tea; it was all very tragic), but Laylee was not afforded the opportunity to grieve. Most ghosts moved on after a good scrubbing, you see, but Maman's had lingered, floating about the halls and criticizing Laylee's best work even when she was sleeping. Baba, t
Come sleet or snow, she alone was forced to work long hours in the cold, her kneecaps icing over as she dragged dead bodies into a large porcelain tub in her backyard. She'd scrub limp necks and broken legs and dirty fingernails until her own fingers froze solid, and then she'd hang those dead, dragging limbs up to dry-only to later return and break icicles off corpse chins and noses. Laylee had no holidays, no vacations, not even a set schedule. She worked when her customers came calling, which meant very soon she'd be worked to the bone. Winter in Whichwood, you see, was a very popular season for dying.
Tonight, Laylee was found frowning (her expression of choice), irritated (perhaps more than usual), bundled (to the point of asphyxiation), and stubbornly determined to catch a few snowflakes before dinner. Fresh flakes were the thickest and the crispest, and a rare treat if you were quick enough to catch a few.
If I may: I know it seems a strange idea, eating snowflakes for dinner, but you have to understand-Laylee Layla Fenjoon was a very strange girl, and despite (or perhaps because of) the oddness of her occupation, she was in desperate need of a treat. She'd had to wash nine very large, thoroughly rotted persons today-this was four more than usual-and it had been very hard on her. Indeed, she often caught herself dreaming of a life where her family didn't run a laundering business for the deceased.Well, I say family, but it was really just Laylee doing all the washing. Maman had died two years prior (a cockroach had fallen in the samovar and Maman, unwittingly, drank the tea; it was all very tragic), but Laylee was not afforded the opportunity to grieve. Most ghosts moved on after a good scrubbing, you see, but Maman's had lingered, floating about the halls and criticizing Laylee's best work even when she was sleeping. Baba, t
... weniger
Autoren-Porträt von Tahereh Mafi
Tahereh Mafi is a girl. She was born the youngest child with four older brothers in a small city somewhere in Connecticut, and currently resides in Orange County, California, where the weather is just a little too perfect for her tastes. She graduated from a tiny liberal arts college two miles from the shores of Laguna Beach, has varying levels of competency in eight different languages and spent a semester abroad in Barcelona, Spain, where she had the opportunity to study Spanish literature in its native form. Shes traveled all over the world, lived on both sides of the country, and even spent some years writing really bad poetry. When unable to find a book, she can be found reading candy wrappers, coupons, and old receipts. She has no idea how to multiply big numbers in her head, and hopes to God no one will ever ask her to.
Bibliographische Angaben
- Autor: Tahereh Mafi
- Altersempfehlung: Ab 10 Jahre
- 2017, 368 Seiten, Maße: 14,2 x 20,9 cm, Kartoniert (TB), Englisch
- Verlag: Dutton
- ISBN-10: 0735231575
- ISBN-13: 9780735231573
- Erscheinungsdatum: 01.11.2017
Sprache:
Englisch
Pressezitat
Praise for New York Times bestseller Furthermore★ A Kirkus Reviews Best Book of 2016
★ A Shelf Awareness Best Book of 2016
★ A Chicago Public Library Best Book of 2016
★ Featured on "Late Night with Seth Meyers," NPR, TIME, and Entertainment Weekly
"Brimming with color and magic... [Mafi's] prose is as fresh and fragrant as the flowers her characters eat, the descriptions so vibrant that at times one can practically smell the words on the page." -New York Times Book Review
★ "A fast-paced, funny, and richly imaginative story that embraces and celebrates individuality." -Publishers Weekly, starred review
★ "Rich, luscious, clever prose." -Kirkus, starred review
Kommentar zu "Whichwood"
0 Gebrauchte Artikel zu „Whichwood“
| Zustand | Preis | Porto | Zahlung | Verkäufer | Rating |
|---|
Schreiben Sie einen Kommentar zu "Whichwood".
Kommentar verfassen